


On Wing'd Beast Does Fortune Fly

by TheIndianWinter



Category: Nattergalen | The Nightingale - Hans Christian Andersen, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: An Unexpected Anniversary, Loosely based on 'The Nightingale', M/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince Under the Mountain is gifted with a songbird.<br/>One blessed with the power of speech that is quite certain he is not, in fact, a bird at all, but a Hobbit.<br/>Just a Hobbit in a bit of a predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Wing'd Beast Does Fortune Fly

**Author's Note:**

> This has been lurking about in the depths of my ideas folder for months. 
> 
> Since one of the prompts for An Unexpected Anniversary is ‘Fairytales’, I figured I should actually get my arse in gear and finish it. 
> 
> Somehow, I managed it. Seriously, this stood at around 1000 words and a rough plan until around seven o'clock last night.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

> _'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals.'_
> 
>  
> 
> **_The Nightingale and the Rose_ \- Oscar Wilde **

* * *

  ** _On Wing'd Beast Does Fortune Fly_**

  ** _or_**

  ** _The Prince and the Nightingale_**

* * *

 

In a kingdom beneath a mountain there lived a Prince.  


        (In fact, there lived several princes, but there is only one with whom we are concerned.)

The Prince lived alone and he had done for quite some time. He supposed he always would.

He did not mind overmuch, for he had his family, his friends and his duty to his king as an heir to the greatest Dwarrow kingdom in all of Arda.

Content in his solitude, was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Solitude brought time for peace and reflection. He had no wish to marry or a need for it either - the succession was secure in his younger brother, Frerin and his sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli.

Yes, Thorin, Prince Under the Mountain was perfectly happy.

Things change.

Dwarrows, hewn from the cool stone by Mahal himself, are somewhat resistant to change, for they are as steadfast and unyielding as the great proud mountains in which they reside.

Yet change did come to Thorin, son of Thrain, and in a form he would not expect.

Change came upon fragile wings, it came in a haunting lament, it came in mottled brown.

To be precise, change came in the form of a songbird.

A nightingale.

* * *

 

Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm, was an Elf, a Sindarin Elf to be exact, and the Elves, as you may know, are not overly fond of the Dwarrows.

        (The same could be said for the Dwarrows’ regard of the Elves and the tendency to refer to them a lovers of fornicating with various types of foliage.)

Still, out of the need for diplomacy between his kingdom and that of Erebor, Thranduil and Thrór, King Under the Mountain would, on occasion, have to pay homage to the other.

        (Such instances were, perhaps needless to say, accompanied by copious amounts of reluctance, grumbling and the wheedling of councillors desperate to retain the peace.)

Upon this occasion, Thranduil was required to present a gift to the eldest grandson of the King, Prince Thorin, on the event of his ninety-fifth birthday.

But what, indeed, should an Elven King present to a Dwarrow-Prince?

Anything of Elvish make would not suit, for the Dwarrows were master craftsmen, and incredibly disparaging of other artisans at that.

One day, around a week before his departure to Erebor, the answer came to him, straight out of the blue.

Quite literally, for it flew in through his window.

A little brown bird, plain and unassuming, that landed upon the end table, beside the chaise longue upon which the King reclined.

The previous evening, there had been a great feast and King Thranduil was now nursing a slight headache and so he waved the tiny nightingale away.

“Don’t you shoo me,” it snapped. Its voice was surprisingly deep, considering its size, smooth and distinctly male.

Thranduil blinked at the creature in shock.

Never before had he see such gifts in a songbird. The only avians he had ever witnessed to be capable of speech were the harsh toned missives from Erebor; ravens as blunt as their feathers were dark.

His delicate state of mind meant he was still processing this fact when he said, “You can speak.”

“Really?” the bird cried sardonically, “I had not noticed. Thank you for informing me.”

Thranduil glared, unused to such impertinence from even his son at the best of times, never mind a little brown bird, talking or no.

The nightingale did not seem cowed at being upon the receiving end of the King’s icy glare, rather he puffed up his feathered breast imperiously and tilted his head to fix the elf with a beady golden eye.

“I am looking for Gandalf,” the bird stated, “Or Mithrandir, as I suppose your folk call him.”

“He is not here,” he replied, not unkindly, but not polite either.

The bird sighed, the sound coming out as several musical notes. “I might have guessed. That wizard is terribly difficult to find.”

Thranduil cocked his head, considering. The creature spoke Westron with the clipped vowels characteristic of those that hailed from west of the Misty Mountains, quite a distance even for himself to travel. Yet, the bird was seemingly acquainted with one of the Istari also.

It was all quite impressive, for such a little thing.

“Is it of great urgency?” the King asked.

“Rather,” was his answer. “Though I have been hunting him quite some months that a few more shall not make much difference.”

“Perhaps if you remain in one place, it will make it easier for you,” suggested Thranduil, “Mithrandir is in the habit of passing this way come winter’s end, which is only a few months from now.”

“It is a little presumptuous of me,” the bird began in an assured manner, “But if you should be glad to accommodate me, I shall wait out the winter. This form is not made to withstand the cold.”

“He visits the Dwarves first,” Thranduil said smoothly, “I must travel to Erebor six nights hence and I should be glad to see you there safely. I am certain they shall welcome you into their halls as their guest.”

“I’ve never met a Dwarf before,” mused the nightingale, “At least not properly.” Then, he bowed his tiny head, “I thank you for your kindness, sir.”

“King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.”

The little bird trilled excitedly, “I have never met a king before.” He seemed to remember himself then and bowed his head once more, “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” 

 

* * *

If one were to search throughout the whole of Arda, one would be pressed to find a monarch who ruled with the same utmost surety as did King Thrór of Erebor. Despite his advancing years, his mind was clear and direct, as was his sense of purpose, his kingdom was wealthy and stable and his line was secured so far as his great-grandsons.

Thrór, as it happened, was extremely lucky, or so it would seem, for the few trials that befell the Kingdom Beneath the Mountain were small and not insurmountable.

       (Quite often, he found, they came as trials to his patience in the form of one particular Elven-King and avoiding a breakdown in the peace between himself and said King.)

Yet, even with years of practice, there were still the very rare occasions in which one could catch the Dwarrow-King off-guard. He found such occasions most unpleasant. It was even worse should the cause of his surprise be Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.

Or rather, in this instance, that which he had brought with him.

A nightingale.

A talking nightingale.

If the smirk that ghosted upon the thin lips of the Elven-King was any indication, then he had very much achieved that which he had hoped - to render King Thrór momentarily speechless - upon his presentation of the gilded cage and the very indignant contents therein.

Balin - who on that day was standing in for his father Fundin, the Chief Advisor - seemed remarkably unfazed and so, stepped forward, bowing his head graciously.

“His Majesty thanks you for your kindness, Your Majesty, and I am sure your gift shall be most appreciated by His Highness, the Prince.”

King Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement before sweeping out of the throne room.

An attendant scurried after him, no doubt to see to it that he was shown to his guest quarters, leaving another to bring the proffered gift closer to the King and Balin.

Tilting its head, the bird pinned King Thrór with a bright golden eye.

“I would have you know,” the bird stated plainly, “That despite what Mr High and Mighty thinks, I am not anyone’s to be exchanged as a gift.”

The King said nothing, merely studied the nightingale quietly.

       (In fact, he was trying to discern what manner of creature this was to stand in the great halls of Erebor and be so unfazed by both it and the presence of royalty. His lack of respect for the Elven-King did endear him to the Dwarrow King somewhat, as did his straightforward manner of speaking.)

“Indeed you are not,” Balin agreed, using the pacifying tone of voice he learned from his father. “Yet would you remain in Erebor?”

“I was assured by King Thranduil that I would be welcomed as your guest, sir,” the nightingale said politely, “And I would be much indebted to you, should you accept me thusly, until such a time as the arrival of Gandalf the Grey.”

“You await Tharkûn?”

“If that is the name by which you refer to the meddling old codger, then yes. I find myself in somewhat of a predicament and regrettably, I believe only he can avail me.”

If Balin was at all surprised by the nightingale’s flippant manner of referring to one of the wizards, then he did not show it, merely smiled serenely.

“Certainly, though in the meantime, I hope you should not mind being stationed in the quarters of the Prince. As his guest, of course, not his gift.”

The bird cocked his tiny head to the side, considering, before offering an assent. King Thrór signalled for the nightingale to be borne away to his grandson’s chambers. With amusement, he noted the bird’s commentary as he commended his attendant for the architecture but scolding him for the dearth of natural light as if it was young Skarfir who was personally responsible.

King Thrór was certain his time in Erebor would be an entertaining one, especially if such a contrary creature was to be in close proximity to his grandson, and enclosed in the mountain as they soon would be for Winter.

From the grin now blooming upon Balin’s face, he could tell his young advisor was thinking much the same things.

These few Winter months were sure to be interesting ones.

* * *

At the age of ninety-four, Thorin was well acquainted with the many ceremonies that surrounded the event of his birthday and as such, he rarely found himself surprised, least of all by the presents he received.

       (His friend Dwalin drew much amusement from his tendency to fall back upon predictability in certain areas (perhaps most notably, in his sense of humour) and when it came to the receipt of gifts he found he was given much the same trinkets each year - he was after all, a Prince and on the whole, wanted for nothing.)

This year, however, it seemed, had proven to be an exception, most of all considering that the extraordinary gift was presented by King Thranduil (who, it should be noted, generally put a rather meagre amount of effort into his choices).

After a long day spent diffusing a frankly, rather bloody territory dispute between the Weavers’ Guild and the Tailors’ Guild, the Prince returned to his chambers straight after dinner with a mind to retire as soon as he could. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary as he stepped through the door, shrugging off his heavy outer cloak and then removing his silver circlet as he went. It was not until he reached halfway across the room that he noticed the golden cage sat upon one of the tables, the creature within barely noticeable, as small and unassuming as it was, sleeping silently.

Thorin paid it no further heed, as exhausted as he was, and by the time he accepted the peaceful void of slumber, he had quite forgotten about his new pet.

The following morning, however, made for quite the different story.

Being a Dwarf only just past adolescence, Thorin was a male not easily awoken of a morn, nor indeed was he pleasant company, at least, not until he had eaten a hearty breakfast and consumed a cup of tea.

       (The tea in question was a special alertness-brew, a blend of the invention of the Royal Tea Merchant, Dori, son of Jari. None was quite certain of the recipe, but it was forever doing wonders for keeping members of council awake through long and dry proceedings including, on occasion, the King himself.)

On this very morning, Thorin was awoken early by birdsong.

Now, it was not that the young Prince was not appreciative of the arts - indeed not, for he was a most accomplished harpist - but he was not appreciative of any sound that woke him before he wished, no matter how lovely.

       (A nightingale’s song, as you may know, is widely regarded as one of the loveliest. Once, it even brought a great leader of Men, one far from the East, to tears.)

As such, it was a rather more cantankerous Thorin than usual that first met Bilbo Baggins.

Storming from his bedchamber, the Prince came to a halt beside the cage and glared at the animal, causing it to cease its singing and instead regard the newcomer with a curious eye.

“What,” snapped Thorin, “Do you think you are doing?”

He knew not why he chose to speak to the bird in that moment, for he could hardly have known that it was capable of understanding him.

“Singing,” the bird replied drolly in a clipped, and distinctly male, accent, regarding Thorin with an expression that, were it on a Dwarf, Thorin would interpret it as the other thinking him particularly obtuse.

“You woke me,” the Prince countered, his usual eloquence having deserted him due to his lack of breakfast.

“I am well aware of that,” said the nightingale in a dry tone. “It is somewhat the point - sing to herald the dawn.”

Thorin frowned slightly, “I thought that was cockerels,” he mused to himself. Then he allowed himself a light smirk, “You are not a chicken.”

To his pleasure, the little bird ruffled his tail feathers indignantly, “Indeed I am not!” he cried, after a moment he added, “However, it is somewhat a side effect of being a bird, the wish to sing, and it is an instinct I find myself rather disinclined to rally against.”

“Well I should prefer it if you remain quiet,” the Prince responded, tone sterner now with remembering that he was still confronting the creature that woke him, most likely before they had even begun preparations for breakfast in the kitchens. “You are surprisingly loud for such a small bird.”

“And you are incredibly rude for a Prince!” retorted the nightingale, puffing up his feathers, indignant. Then, after a moment’s pause, and in a decidedly imperious manner, he continued, “I’ll have you know, I am in fact a Hobbit, not a bird.”

Thorin felt his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline - never before had he observed such pride in such a small creature. He also found himself rather curious for, as ill-acquainted a he was with the ways of Halflings, he was certain they did not possess the ability to shift forms - that they were not kin of the Skin-Changers.

“A Hobbit?” Thorin said archly. “One of the Halflings?”

If Thorin had considered the nightingale indignant before, that was nothing compared to the manner in which he inflated his tiny chest now.

“I am not half of anything, thank you very much!”

“Why are you in the form of a nightingale then?” Thorin persisted, in spite of the bird’s fury, curiosity overriding his feeling that he was overstepping some rule regarding propriety.

       (Were there rules of propriety that came into play when one was faced with an animal blessed with the faculties of speech? Thorin was fairly sure that if there were indeed such codes, Balin would be well-acquainted with them.)

“That is none of your business,” huffed the nightingale.

“Can I at least know your name?” Thorin requested, in as polite a tone as he could manage. He had most likely infuriated the bird as much as was possible in five minutes. “You do have a name, do you not?”

“Of course I have a name!” he snapped. He then bowed his tiny head. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Thorin inclined his head in return, feeling only mildly ridiculous in doing so. “Thorin, son of Thráin, Prince Under the Mountain, at yours.”

A twinkle passed through the golden eye fixed upon him, one that Thorin imagined to be a smile and he offered a slight quirk of the lips in return before carrying himself off to his bathroom.

The nightingale - Bilbo, he reminded himself - seemed such an interesting creature and his lack of ceremony or indeed regard for Thorin’s station was most refreshing. He would have to enquire of his grandfather whom he was to thank for gifting him such a companion for surely it was not the Elven-King.

* * *

In the time succeeding their initial meeting, Bilbo did not begin his morning sing-song until the Prince had emerged from his bedchamber.

       (Except for one occasion where Thorin rather memorably stumbled in after a feast, oh so very deep into his cups as he sang a rather nonsensical little ditty about pixies and Bilbo sang, as loudly as possible, the following morning, purely for his own amusement.)

Thorin, in turn, learned that as long as he refrained from asking about the particulars of Bilbo’s being a bird, the pair of them got along most amicably. After a hard day of lessons and duties, the Prince often unwound to tales of the Shire, whence Bilbo hailed, of its curious residents and even more peculiar customs. Bilbo told him of plant lore and stargazing, of great Hobbit families and dances that continued on until the soft light of dawn was painted upon the sky. In exchange, Thorin regaled him with tales of his childhood and the many stories behind the Erebor the small bird was free to explore.

Soon, it became quite the expected sight to find the young Prince wandering the halls, his face bright as he narrated some obscure history to the tiny brown bird nestled atop his head.

A change was noted amongst the people of Erebor, for whilst their Prince was not known for being a dour fellow, there was a certain ease about his person that had never been observed before. Many spoke with pleasure of the lonely Prince finally finding a friend, even if it was in the form of a bird.

       (Beyond his immediate family, the Prince did indeed have friends, namely Dwalin, son of Fundin; yet these were raised as subjects first, friends second. Bilbo owed him no such loyalty. The nightingale saw not the crown, but the heart behind it.)

* * *

The Dwarrows had little call to mark the seasons, deep in the bowels of their mountain, as they were, yet there was many a Dwarrow ballad that celebrated the changing scenery, the different hues woven into the tapestry of time. By far their favourite was the way the world awakened after Winter. Even in the mountain, there was a joy unleashed with the lengthening of the days and the thawing of the snow.

Thorin was conflicted however, for Spring brought with it Tharkûn, and with him, the departure of Bilbo Baggins. He chose to ignore the vague sense of dread that twisted in his gut in favour of pretending that nothing was the matter at all. If Bilbo at all noticed the Prince’s slight melancholy, then he had the courtesy not to question it.

Until of course, a raven came, around two weeks after the first snowdrop had crested, white and pure against the cold grey dirt, the bird’s harsh Westron bringing news of the Grey Wizard’s coming.  

Thrór gave the news to his grandson, watching with concern at the pained look in his blue eyes, a sadness soon set aside for something rather more impassive.

“Very well,” Thorin replied, inclining his head. “I shall bear the news to Bilbo right away.”

His grandfather had no time to respond before Thorin stepped down from the dais and swept from the throne room, hands clenched at his sides.

Bilbo was not present in his quarters when he arrived and so he allowed himself to crumple into an armchair, hiding his head in his hands. He knew not how long he sat there for, a sensation both hollow and bitter curling in his gut before the door opened and a merry Bilbo fluttered in, bidding farewell to whoever had accompanied him - by the sound of things it was Ori, a young apprentice in the Scribes’ Guild with whom he had struck up a fast friendship.

“I was not expecting to see you,” he commented mildly as he spotted Thorin. He stopped whatever he had been intending to say upon noticing the Prince’s despondency, coming to rest upon Thorin’s knee and trying to peer up into his face. “Whatever is the matter Thorin?”

The Dwarf managed a shaky smile as he lifted his head from its cradle.

“‘Tis no matter.”

Bilbo made a troubled chirp but thankfully did not press the matter, instead fluttering up to rest on one of Thorin’s palms.

After a short silence, Thorin spoke.

“A raven came today. A message from Tharkûn, to expect him one week hence.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, and Thorin could not help the slight pleasure he felt that Bilbo was not so excited as expected. “Winter has passed by much quicker than I thought.”

As a child, Winters had seemed impossibly long to Thorin, with the cold and the dark and the claustrophobic nature of being enclosed in the mountain for many a month. Even now he was of age, it still seemed to last far longer than any of the other seasons.

He was quite in accord with Bilbo though - this Winter hardly seemed a Winter at all.

“You will be able to go home,” he managed, voice thick with an emotion he did not wish to acknowledge.

“Yes,” was his absentminded reply.

A silence fell, a great void between them, filled only with the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth. Thorin had never really noticed the silence before Bilbo came. He wondered if that was all that awaited him now.

Silence.

“I would still be able to come back though?” Bilbo asked, drawing Thorin back to him.

The Prince blinked down at the tiny bird, “Come back?”

“To Erebor,” the nightingale clarified, “Only I should be loath to part from you all if I shall never see you again. You have become a most dear friend to me Thorin. Then of course there is Ori, and Bofur, and Balin. Frerin and Dís, of course. And young Fíli and baby Kíli. I could not bear it.”

Thorin was helpless to the smile blossoming on his face - not that he wished to fight it - one accompanied by the warm sensation of hope spreading throughout him, right to his very fingertips.

“Of course you should be welcome here Bilbo. If you wish it, Erebor shall be your home as long as it is mine.”

Bilbo ducked his head, flustered, but he made a few pleased notes all the same and when he looked back up at Thorin, there was such a warmth to his gaze that Thorin was certain, were he able to, Bilbo would be smiling just as wide as he.

* * *

Gandalf the Grey may not have achieved the same status as his fellow Istari, Saruman the White, but where he lacked in that department, he more than made up for in notoriety. In the whole of Arda, there was barely a settlement that had not heard of the legendary Grey Pilgrim, or seen him first hand.

The wizard was very fond of the peoples in the land over which he watched and he was impartial to none so much as the Hobbits of the Shire. They were a friendly folk, welcoming of outsiders once they had set aside their initial suspicions (as long as one had no intentions to whisk any young Hobbits away on an adventure, then the Shire was always accommodating - Hobbits did pride themselves as excellent hosts after all) and though their ways were simple, Gandalf could always rely upon them to surprise him.

Upon arriving at Erebor, Gandalf was more than just surprised - in fact, he was rather more in the realm of completely astounded - to find one Bilbo Baggins, perched on the shoulder of King Thrór’s grandson and in the form of a bird, no less.

Last Gandalf had seen Bilbo Baggins, both he and the young Hobbit had been in mourning - he for his dear, old friend and Bilbo for his mother - and the wizard had departed with a sad smile and an offer of adventure.

       (An adventure, he hoped, foolishly, would take the Hobbit from his empty smial and might begin to heal the gaping wound left in the wake of his parents’ deaths.)

Bilbo had turned the offer down with a watery-eyed smile.

“I should remain here, Gandalf, and look after Bag-End.”

Still at the gate, Gandalf had turned back and said, “I am headed East. If you ever wish to leave, make for Rivendell, the Elves there are kind and their Lord has means with which to reach me.”

Bilbo had just nodded before retreating behind the green front door.

That had been around eighteen months ago.

He approached the dais, along the elevated platform, the sides of which dropped into the great depths of the mountain below. In all his long years wandering Arda, Gandalf had always marvelled at the halls of the Dwarf-Lords and their innate ability to make one feel so much smaller - their strong, angular architecture lent a far more intimidating air than the sweeping, grandiose arches favoured by the Elves.

King Thrór greeted him with his usual equanimity, seated proudly upon his throne, flanked by his son and eldest grandson. The wizard bowed his head, removing his hat in a show of deference. Though their interaction had not the ease with which Gandalf had with the Hobbits, nor the benefit of many, many centuries as he did with the Elves, Gandalf felt he could presume to call King Thrór his friend and he held a great respect for him as a leader.

“I am most pleased to be welcomed back into your halls,” he said graciously.

The younger Prince then stepped forward and it was then that Gandalf caught sight of the small bird perched upon Prince Thorin’s shoulder. A nightingale, if he was not mistaken, though such a sight was unusual in the mountain, not least because most of its kind migrated much further South to pass the colder months.

“I believe,” began the Prince, “That you are acquainted with our guest here, Bilbo Baggins? Though perhaps not, in his current form.”

“Good day, Gandalf,” a voice that was most certainly Bilbo’s greeted him.

The wizard blinked in astonishment.

Eventually, he managed, “Bilbo Baggins, what in the name of Eru brings you here?”

“You,” the Hobbit replied plainly, tilting his head to fix him with one stern golden eye, “You told me you were headed East, so East I went.”

“But why are you…” he trailed off, for once at a loss for words, “...Not a Hobbit?”

If Gandalf supposed birds capable of such an expression, he supposed Bilbo might have frowned at that, the faltering kind that comes from having the answer you had anticipated and hoped for rather unexpectedly done away with. As it was, such an expression instead found its way onto the face of the young Dwarf Prince.

“So this is not your doing?” Bilbo asked slowly.

“Bilbo, my boy!” Gandalf cried, “What would make you think that? What reason would I have to turn you into a bird?”

“I thought it was a way to get me out on an adventure!” the little nightingale exclaimed.

“Goodness no,” replied the wizard, “My methods would be much more direct.”

“Would you not know then,” began Bilbo carefully, “How to go about turning me back?”

Gandalf sighed, a little sadly, for he had not come across such magic in an age but he believed - hoped - that there was something he could do, for the sake of his friend.

* * *

Thorin thought it a boon that he was allowed to accompany his Hobbit as he went with the wizard into his grandfather’s private chamber, hidden beneath the throne itself. The Prince did not like the room very well for it was much too small and much too gloomy, decorated sparsely with a great stone table, surrounded by eight chairs that swallowed up most of the floor space.

It reminded him of the small, grim schoolroom where he had been forced to endure many a claustrophobic afternoon in his childhood.

He was plagued now by a different, slightly more imminent sense of consuming dread than he did then.

Gandalf sat upon one of the chairs, Bilbo resting in one of his palms as he ghosted the other hand over the fragile avian body he held. Apart from the low mutterings of Tharkûn, the room was silent, the air so thick and oppressive it was almost palpable.

Finally, Gandalf spoke.

“It is an old magic, this. Have you any idea what might have caused it?”

“I don’t remember much,” answered Bilbo, “The whole thing left me most disorientated.”

“Can you reverse it?” Thorin asked, unable to keep the urgency swirling in his gut from thickening his words as he spoke.

Gandalf’s pale lips set into a grim line.

The tension dropped from the room leaving something even more unpleasant in its wake - the sour atmosphere of resignation, Bilbo at its epicentre.

“I cannot,” Gandalf confirmed, “The reversal of the spell is down to yourself Bilbo.”

“Me? What can I do?”

A distant, fond smile edged its way onto the wizard’s aged face.

“I know not the particulars for I do not know whence the spell came, but many of these old magics are quite romantic in nature. I think you may find Bilbo that true love is your answer.”

Thorin stilled, that curious clenching feeling arising in his chest once more, one he had grown used to in the past month or so.

“True love?” Bilbo repeated, sounding the slightest bit incredulous. “As in predestined lovers and things of that ilk?”

“No, that is not what true love is,” Gandalf explained, “It does not have to be romantic in nature, though it often is. Many mistake it for passion, but true love is not so - it is soft, not harsh, though it is deep and unyielding. True love endures.”

“Like a parent’s love for their child?”

Gandalf nodded, “In many ways, that is the truest love of all.”

Bilbo trilled thoughtfully for a moment, then the eye Thorin could see widened in realisation.

“I need to go home,” he said suddenly.

The wizard raised a bushy eyebrow, “Home?”

“Yes, perhaps if I find something of my mother’s or father’s.”

Gandalf pursed his lips, considering, though Thorin did not miss the brief glance the wizard made in his direction.

Thorin did not know what part he could play in this, he would just be happy for Bilbo to turn back into a Hobbit, as he so desperately wanted to.

“That could work,” postulated the wizard.

Bilbo bobbed his little head, determined, “Then it is settled. The day after the morrow I shall fly West.”

At that, Thorin was just confused because what he was feeling so acutely was most definitely not happiness, but something much more akin to everything falling apart.

* * *

The Shire, as you may well know, was a peaceful place - not to say that life there was uneventful, for indeed it was not - but it was a bright place, with towns nestled in rolling green hills and golden fields of wheat and that were rarely touched by tragedy.

As such, when tragedy did choose to strike, suspicions arose and if one was not careful, then soon a superstition would develop.

Primula Baggins did not consider herself above luck or superstition (as certain residents of Hobbiton said of her) but she simply did not believe in it, which was why she accepted her cousin Lobelia’s gracious offer to let Bag-End.

       (It took some persuading of her bridegroom, Drogo, for he was a Baggins by birth, and the Bagginses were amongst the most sensible and respectable of all folk in the Shire.)

Bag-End’s history may have been a tragic one, one that ended all too recently with the mysterious disappearance of its master, her cousin Bilbo Baggins, almost eighteen months previous, but she did not believe the smial was in any way cursed. She therefore accepted the offer to move in, after her marriage to Drogo, since the smial was roomy and richly furnished, the perfect place to raise her future children.

In fact, she thought nothing of the rumours or fear that concerned her home until one day, just as Spring was turning into Summer, there came a knock at the door.

Well, not such much a knock as a light tapping, almost like the rapping of a beak upon the wood, quiet enough that at first she thought she had imagined it.

There was a bird at her door - a tiny brown nightingale - that fluttered on past her very much as if it owned the place, landing upon her Aunt Belladonna’s glory box and fixing her with a beady golden eye.

“Primula Brandybuck,” it addressed her.

“Baggins,” she corrected automatically, though her mind was still very much processing the fact that, yes, this tiny bird spoke with a voice that sounded exactly how she remembered her cousin Bilbo’s to be.

“Congratulations,” Bilbo said, “I hope that you and Drogo are most happy.”

“Indeed we are, thank you,” Primula smiled, “But where have you been cousin?”

“All over!” Bilbo exclaimed, then in a mutter, added, “Looking for that meddling wizard mostly.”

“How come?”

There was a moment’s pause in which Primula could very well imagine the blank, slightly incredulous look her cousin should be casting her way at that.

“I should think that would be fairly obvious, dear Prim,” he said in a droll tone.

“So did you not find Gandalf then? You are after all, a bird. Was it he that turned you into a bird?”

Bilbo let out a sigh, one that ruffled the dappled feathers of his breast. “How about I tell you over a cup of tea? It is not much good to me, but I gather you should like it all the same.”

Primula nodded with a grin, following as the bird flew ahead of her to the kitchen, taking a perch at the wooden table.

“Before you ask,” he started, “I still do not know what caused the transformation, only that it left me most disorientated and when I woke up afterwards, I was in the Old Forest. At that time, I blamed Gandalf, for it was not yet two months after his departure, and he had tried to persuade me on an adventure.

“East he had told me, so East I went, but the colder months were quickly upon me and I was driven South, to the Southernmost reaches of Gondor in order to survive them. There, I was advised, come Spring, to head straight North for Mirkwood and seek out Radagast the Brown who lived there. All Summer, I searched forest, until, just as Autumn arrived, I found myself at the halls of the Elven King who promised to take me to the Lonely Mountain, home of the Dwarrows of Erebor, where Gandalf was sure to arrive with Spring.”

Primula listened attentively, for she had always enjoyed the tales of her elder cousin, but this was different, for this was not born of his imagination, but a true adventure. With a knowing amusement, she watched the lightness that came about his being as he spoke of his time in Erebor and the friendships he forged there, most notably with the Prince and she wondered if Bilbo would notice, were he the one observing such happiness as opposed to blindly exhibiting it.

She told him of her wedding and the great party that followed it, and of course of the many rumours that Bag-End was now haunted or cursed in some capacity which Bilbo, quite predictably, scoffed at.

Then he told her of his plan, to find something that symbolised true love, tenuous though it was, as he acknowledged, and she wondered how her cousin, her ever so clever elder cousin, could be quite so idiotic.

“Love,” Primula began in an assured manner, “Is quite often about sacrifice and compromise. Often, if you love something, you have to let it go, or so the proverb goes. Then, if it comes back, it’s yours and if not, well, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”

Bilbo had stilled and Primula resisted the urge to puff herself up proudly at her profound (albeit borrowed) words and their effect.

“Let it go?” Bilbo’s voice held a strangled note, the kind Primula was certain was the sound of someone who was in the process of coming to a very important realisation indeed.

“Yes, no matter how much you wish for it to stay. You just hope for it’s return.”

The nightingale made a strange garbled, gulping sound before leaping up from the table.

“I have to go!” he cried.

Primula’s brow furrowed, “So soon? Will you not at least stay and say hello to Drogo?”

“I highly doubt he’d believe it was me, or he’d think me a ghost and then you would have to move out. No I will go, but I promise to return, hopefully as a Hobbit.”

“Very well,” she sighed, “But I expect you to write to me before then.”

Bilbo agreed readily as she carried him to the front door, pressing a gentle kiss to his feathered head as she went.

“Take care of Bag-End for me.”

“I will, take care on your journey Bilbo.”

He let out of few notes of joyful song as he fluttered across the front garden and Primula watched as his form shrank until he was nothing but a dark pinprick on the bright blue sky.

She smiled to herself as she imagined the look on Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ face when she learned that Bilbo had married into royalty, and Dwarrow royalty no less.

* * *

In wake of Bilbo’s departure from Erebor, there was one word that perfectly summed up Prince Thorin’s entire countenance: heartbroken.

As the nightingale had disappeared towards the horizon, the young Prince had come to the rather stunningly ill-timed epiphany that he was indeed very much in love with one Bilbo Baggins.

Bilbo was gone, and though Thorin could have pursued him, he knew Bilbo wanted to go home - the Shire would be where he would be happy and he did not need things like Thorin chasing after him to declare his undying love to complicate matters.

No such a thing would likely put Bilbo off returning to Erebor entirely.

Instead, Thorin chose to await the return he hoped for and fill up his time with further duties and such ilk. His grandfather was worried, he could tell, yet he obliged perhaps because he could see keeping busy did indeed help and prevented Thorin from descending into a melancholy that would make him increasingly more snappish, as had been the case for the first month of Spring.

At the end of that first month, his younger brother Frerin, who had taken to the Clockmaker’s Guild for his craft, had come to him with a golden bird he had created himself (an incredible feat considering he was an apprentice), with the finest emeralds for eyes and magnificent opals about the stand. When wound up, it sang beautifully, mimicking the lament of the nightingale almost perfectly, though with a metallic edge discernible only to Thorin, for he knew Bilbo’s song so well.

Still, each night, he would wind it up to sing him a lullaby to send him off into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

The gears inside, however, were delicate and as such were not designed for such consistent use. After six months, on a cold day in late Autumn, just before his next birthday, his mechanical bird simply did not sing.

Thorin almost cast it aside in his grief, his last tenuous link to Bilbo gone from him as it was, but he could not bear to destroy his brother’s beautiful handiwork so instead he hid it away.

On one afternoon, around a week after the Dwarrows of Erebor had marked Durin’s Day, Thorin stood upon the ramparts, gazing out towards Dale, over the bronzed treetops that dotted the valley. It was there, upon the breeze, that he heard it - soft at first, but growing clearer - the unmistakable sound of birdsong.

His head snapped up and he saw him then, his tiny form silhouetted against the light grey sky.

“Bilbo,” he breathed, his disbelief being knocked down by the sheer joy coursing through him, even though his dear friend was still very much a bird.

The nightingale landed upon the stone ledge before him, an unreadable look in the gold eye that was fixed upon him.

“You let me go,” he stated, a little breathless from the exertion.

“I had to,” Thorin protested, “You wanted to go home.”

Bilbo fluttered his wings in an approximation of a shrug, “It’s my dear cousins’ home now.” He paused for a moment, continuing to regard Thorin with that same appraising look. It made him feel laid bare, his love plain to see, and he found he cared not.

“She told me something, when I was there, an old proverb about letting things go.”

Thorin hummed deep in his throat, “I remember my grandmother telling me something similar when I was younger. Does it not go onto to say that if whoever it is comes back, then they’re yours?”

There was a moment, in which they simply looked at one another silently, and then Bilbo said, “I came back.”

Grinning, Thorin scooped Bilbo up into his palms. His heart was swelling so, he felt as if his chest could not contain it. Gently, he placed a kiss atop the tiny head.

All of a sudden, with a loud noise and a flash of white light that left him temporarily blinded, the bird before him disappeared, replaced instead by what Thorin decided was simply the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes upon.

Swallowing thickly, Thorin noted that he was also horrendously underdressed and he hurriedly swept him into his fur cloak.

Bilbo chuckled, the sound almost musical, but deeper than his song had been as a bird and the Prince was quite sure he had never heard anything more perfect in his life.

“You’re blushing,” he teased.

Thorin glared playfully back, “Of course I am ghivashel, have you looked at yourself?”

“Not in two years.” He peered down into the cloak and pouted, “I’ve lost weight.”

“And if what you have told me about Hobbits is true,” Thorin began, wrapping an arm about Bilbo’s shoulders to steer him inside, “Then you shall eat enough to regain it soon enough. Seven meals a day was it?”

“Yes, none of that silly three meals nonsense you Dwarrows insist upon.”

As they walked along in silence, Thorin just revelled in the feeling of the warm body tucked beneath his arm. Bilbo’s hazel eyes were fixed upon the pale, curly brown hair atop his large feet, slowly processing his change. Thorin could not quite believe it himself, such exquisite happiness as it was.

       (Though it may have soured somewhat when he considered that he did have an Elf to thank for all this. And Thranduil, of all Elves.)

* * *

> _I love your heart better than your crown_
> 
>  
> 
> **_The Nightingale_ Hans Christian Anderson**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, I can be found on [tumblr](theindianwinter.tumblr.com).


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